


Hair Of The Dog

by MissDoodle



Series: Stargazing [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Drinking, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, One Night Stands, Sexual Humor, Starscream being Starscream, Wheeljack being a prude, Wheeljack's bad life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDoodle/pseuds/MissDoodle
Summary: You'd be hard pressed to find an Autobot who hadn't racked up a few drunken one night stands over the millenia, but just how many could say they'd had a drunken one night stand with Starscream?
Relationships: Starscream/Wheeljack (Transformers)
Series: Stargazing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027054
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	Hair Of The Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Fae and Princewarmachine my wonderful Betas <3

Starscream remembered little of the night before. He remembered heading to Blurr’s to escape Windblade’s incessant nagging, and for a healthy dose of Engex to muffle the frenzied thoughts swarming in his processor.

That day had been a particular misery. Meetings, briefings, mountains of paperwork, and an endless parade of self entitled pissants all tripping over themselves to register their grievances. It had been Windblade’s idea to allow audiences with the public. Rattrap seconded this, insisting it would go a long way to rehabilitate the Lord of Cybertron's ever worsening public image. It would be worth it. After much deliberation and a sobering glance at his approval ratings, Starscream finally relented—and regretted this almost immediately.

For the average Seeker, a few shots of Nightmare Fuel would do the trick. But for Starscream, the beleaguered and unfairly maligned Lord of Cybertron, something far stronger was in order.

Blurr, to his credit, made a point of knowing exactly what his regulars liked. Starscream had barely gotten comfortable in his corner booth before a tall cocktail was placed in front of him.

“You’d better bring me another.” He said, snatching it the moment Blurr withdrew his servo, “This one won’t last very long.”

Without missing a beat, he threw back his helm and drained the entire glass, then slammed it back down on the table. “And make it a triple this time.”

Somewhere into his third—fourth?—cocktail he remembered seeing Wheeljack enter the bar and hoping to Primus or Unicron, or who-the-frag-ever that the Speedster wouldn’t spot him. His prayers went unanswered, but that was to be expected.

Wheeljack had sniffed him out like an Energon hound and an argument ensued. Starscream could not remember enough to be certain, but was inclined to believe he’d taken the Speedster’s abuse with remarkable aplomb.

Wheeljack went on a minor tirade about Starscream’s increasingly dismissive attitudes towards those he'd supposedly appointed to help him. Mainly, though, he just prattled on about Windblade. It’s only been a few months since he’d come out of stasis and already that damn foreigner had her claws in him.

It was becoming a real problem. No doubt she’d run off and blubbered to Wheeljack the very instant Starscream took his leave of her. He’d have to find a way to put a wedge between those two. Before it was two late.

Starscream couldn’t recall at what point—or exactly how—but he’d eventually talked the smarmy pain in the aft into shutting up, sitting down, and having a drink. They were in a bar after all, and if Wheeljack was going to argue with him in public he could at least have the decency to get himself tipsy first.

This proved a fatal mistake for the Autobot. Despite his size, Wheeljack was an astonishing lightweight. By the end of his first cocktail he was already too buzzed to realize—or care—that going in for a second might not be the wisest course of action.

By his third cocktail, Wheeljack had all but forgotten why he’d come to Blurr’s in the first place and had begun prattling on about his feelings. Words tumbled out of him, half slurred and achingly sincere. Had he not been fantastically drunk himself by that point, it might have been too much for Starscream to stomach. He’d never understood it. How a mech, no matter their chemically altered their state of mind, could allow themselves to be so vulnerable.

“There there, Jackie...” Starscream wasn’t sure if he’d done so mockingly or in a genuine attempt at comfort, but he’d reached across the table then and patted the Speedster’s shoulder. “You’re alright. Everything’s all right.”

If the latter, he must have been far more drunk than he’d realized.

The last thing he remembered before the evening descended into a complete blur was Wheeljack, too far gone to interpret the gesture as anything but sincere, looking back him with misty optics and murmuring “Thanks, Star. You’re really not such a bastard when you’re drunk.”

How things proceeded afterwards was a mystery, but it had led to their current predicament. Starscream, more hungover than he could remember being for decades, had awoken in his berthroom to find himself draped across the Speedster’s chassis. It had taken several minutes for his processor to fully boot itself and start making sense of the information being fed to it.

His apartment. His berthroom. Wheeljack.

Wheeljack in his berthroom.

Starscream carefully lifted the insulation sheet from himself to peer under it, and sure enough there it was, soaked into the fibers of the berthsheets. The unmistakable evidence of an interface. On closer examination of his frame, he found yet more traces of last night's affair. Paint transfers on his wings, turbines, chassis; little finger shaped dents in his hips, and—were those bite marks on his thighs?

It seemed Wheeljack was a more assertive berth partner than would be assumed.

Starscream let out a long, heavy exvent and murmured, “Primus…”

He heard the insulation sheets rustling. Wheeljack was stirring beside him, and for a terrifying moment Starscream braced himself for the inevitable panic that was to come. But Wheeljack didn’t wake. Not yet. Instead he only groaned softly, turning over onto his side and settling back into recharge.

Starscream allowed himself a moment of relief before gingerly slipping out of the berth, careful not to disturb the sleeping mech.

He crept across the floor, toward the wash and lightly tapped the keypad. The door slid away, mercifully quiet, and he stepped inside, sparing a final glance at Wheeljack. The Speedster was still curled up in recharge, and Starscream couldn’t help but to admit that the sight of a handsome mech warming his berth was rather an inviting tableau. It took more willpower than it ought have for the Seeker to tear his optics away.

With the door closed behind him, Starscream activated the solvent stream and then waited a few moments, listening for the sound of movement from the other room. When a minute passed with no indication that Wheeljack had been disturbed, Starscream deemed it safe to proceed. He let the stream of solvent run over his servo to gauge it’s temperature, still rising. Once he was satisfied, the Seeker stepped under the stream and let it heat wash over him.

Of all the things he’d missed during the war, it was the luxury of a nice, leisurely wash that he was happiest to reclaim. Megatron had been ruthless in his effort to converge their resources, and this meant everything—Energon, water,spare parts, and even hours slept—was heavily rationed and spread as thinly as possible. Even as an officer of Decepticon High Command, Starscream had only known the pleasure of a lukewarm shower once in a blue moon, when Megatron was especially pleased with his service to the cause. Which he almost never was.

On days when his need for pampering outweighed his need to converge energy, Starscream would use his thrusters to bring a basin of solvent to a boil and wash his face with it. By the end of the war, that had been one of his few remaining joys in life. A freshly cleaned face.

That and gunning down Autobots.

Starscream took his sweet time in drying off. His new frame was still in near mint condition, and he intended to keep it that way fit as long as possible. That meant a proper run down with a polishing cloth to avoid unseemly streaks of dried solvent. Afterwards, if he had the time, he intended to apply some touch ups here and there and go over his whole frame with a buffer.

Unfortunately, it was halfway through this that Starscream heard a loud groan from the other side of the door. Wheeljack was waking up, and any moment now he’d be throwing a fit.

Snapping the lid back onto his cosmetics case, Starscream signed and stepped out into the berthroom. As expected, Wheeljack was hinged over, nursing a sore processor and looking around himself in a daze.

“What the...where the frag am I?”

“Allow me,” Starscream decided it was best to keep his distance for the moment. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chassis. “You’re in my appartment, this is my berthroom, and yes, we fragged.”

Wheeljack stated to him, dumbfounded, “...sorry, what?”

“We fragged. Right there in that birth.”

The Speedster still wasn’t getting it. His processor must still be booting up, “We...I don’t...what!?”

Starscream had no patience for this.

“You”—he pointed to Wheeljack—“Me”—he gestured to himself—“Frag. We fragged. Your spike, my valve.” At least he had to assume this was how it went. Starscream was generally a valve mech.

That seemed to do the trick. Wheeljack’s optics blew wide and he shit bolt upright. “WHAT!? NO!!”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no, no, no!” Wheeljack sprang to his pedes, than immediately plunked down on the berth as he was brutally reminded of that raging hangover. When the worst of it passed he was on his pedes again, pacing the room and clutching his helm in dismay. “How!? How did--”, He came to an abrupt stop and turned to Starscream with an accusatory jab of his finger. “You drugged me didn’t you!”

The Seeker rolled his eyes, “First of all, rude. Secondly, having been on the receiving end of that treatment on numerous occasions, I can guarantee if you’d been drugged that you wouldn’t be anywhere near coherent for at least another twelve hours. And seeing as you’re stomping about my bathroom accusing me of the unspeakable, I think we can rule drugs out of the occasion. And last but not least, I never have and never will need the aid of petty tricks to bed a mech who strikes my fancy.”

“Right, of course,” The Speedster snapped, “Because who could resist someone with your glowing personality!” He started pacing again, the gears in his helm turning. Starscream decided to take pity on the poor thing and withhold punishment for that miserable excuse of an insult. He simply watched as the Speedster wracked his processor for any scraps of information from the night prior that hadn’t been corrupted beyond use.

“Oh...oh, Primus. The bar!” Wheeljack had yet again frozen in his tracks.

Ah, there it was. Seemed he did remember after all, or was at least beginning to.

“We got overcharged and...and…”

Starscream took the liberty of finishing for him, “And then we ended up here and you went absolutely feral on my nethers. And my wings. And I’m pretty certain these are your teeth marks on my neck cabling.”

There was a loud from Wheeljack as he sank back down onto the bed, helm dropping into his servos. “I can’t believe this.”

“Neither can I”, Starscream decided it was safe to approach the Speedster by now, “Here I’d always taken you for a prude, and yet this morning I found a servo shaped dent on my aft. Seems you’re quite the cyber-stallion.”

The Speedster gave another weak little groan, “I’m gonna be sick…”

“Please, you’re just hungover. You’ll be fine.”

“I need to see Ratchet—“ Wheeljack paused, his addled professor suddenly reminding him that Ratchet was currently several billion miles away doing Primus knows what with Rodimus and his merry band of idiots. “Or, whoever. A medic. A good one. If there are even any left.”

Starscream balked at the implication. “I am not diseased you ungrateful little scrap!”

“Oh please!” Wheeljack rose to his pedes and leveled Starscream with a look of sheer disgust, “Everyone on every planet knows that you slept your way through the Decepticon army before the war was even half over.”

“And a good chunk of the Autobots, as well.”

He wondered if Wheeljack might come tumbling down from that imaginary moral high ground of his if he knew just how many of those Autobots were mechs he considered close friends and colleagues. Quite a few of them had even come crawling back for seconds.

“Anyhow, I don’t see what you have to complain about. You clearly can’t remember a thing or you’d know that last night was the single most incredible experience of your sad little life.”

“Oh yeah. Definitely. Graduating from the Academy, meeting Optimus Prime, winning the war...everything pales in comparison to an overcharged frag with a washed up Decepticon.”

“Whatever. I don’t have to take this.” With a huff, Starscream stormed out of the berthroom and into the den. Making a b-line for the small kitchenette in the far corner, he began rifling through some cabinets. A glass was placed on the table and filled to the brim with Engex. A second later, Starscream had already drained it and poured himself another.

It wasn't long before Wheeljack came hobbling into the den. He lifted a servo to shield his optics as they adjusted to the hazy sunlight flooding in through the windows.

Starscream had specifically chosen his new residence for those windows. They were massive, spanning from floor to ceiling. It resembled a style of architecture which had been popular in Vos before the city was leveled. High ceilings, open floor plans, and enormous windows looking down on a breathtaking view of the city. Starscream had hoped to own such a place for himself one day, but alas. The best Iacon had to offer was an underwhelming imitation, but it was better than nothing. Certainly better than living in one of those the ground floor hovels with their minuscule windows, totally cut off from the sky.

“Pretty nice digs”, Wheeljack seemed to be taking his time admiring the tasteful layout of the den. “How much does a place like this coat a mech? Or...does the Lord of Cybertron even pay rent?” 

Ordinarily, Starscream would be more than happy to flaunt his impeccable taste in interior decor, but the throb in his processor was only worsening the longer he was awake. But he would power through this hangover as he had the thousands before it, and he preferred to do so in solitude. 

Perching himself in one of the stools at the counter, Starscream waved a hand toward the Autobot.

“It’s none of your concern, now go. Out with you. Run along back to your little friends and tell them all about your turn with Cybertron's most infamous whore.”

The way his optics narrowed suggested that Wheeljack might’ve been scowling, but with his mask on it was impossible to tell. Starscream couldn’t help wondering, possibly for the hundredth time, just what was under that mask and why the Speedster was compelled to hide it. It occurred to Starscream that he must have seen what was under it at some point the night before. Whether or not there had been kissing was up for debate, but what could not be disputed was that Wheeljack had eaten valve last night. 

Oh yes, he’d done things with that secretive mouth that would make even a pleasure drone blush. And Starscream couldn't remember one damn moment of it. Pity. 

“Not much of a host are you,” the Speedster grumbled, looking over his shoulder at Starscream. Wheeljack was standing by one of the windows, admiring the view of mid morning Iacon. 

The Seeker grimaced, clutching his glass a little tighter, “Only when I feel like it.” 

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that I don't particularly feel like bein your guest any more than I already have. So I’m going to walk out that door, and then neither of us will ever have to speak of this again.”

This attitude was to be expected. Mechs, Autobots especially, generally didn’t make it their business to stick around and make small talk once they’d had their taste of Starscream. It was just as well. He didn’t need them loitering in his personal space. 

Wheeljack made for the door, but paused for a double take when he noticed what was clutched in Starscream’s servo.

“You’re drinking already?”

“Oh yes.” Starscream tipped back his helm and emptied the entire glass. He had not even given himself time to swallow before hastily filling the glass again.

“After what we—“ Wheeljack corrected himself. He found it distasteful using the term “we” in reference to Starscream and himself. It carried far too many implications for his liking, “—after what happened last night!?”

“Especially after what happened last night.” Starscream knocked back his third glass. “There are still a few hazy details knocking around in my processor and I’d prefer to have them expunged as soon as possible. I recommend you do the same as you’re apparently so traumatized.”

“I am not—“

“Weren’t you supposed to be leaving?” Starscream stopped mid-pour and slammed down the bottle of Engex, wings flaring out behind him. “Believe it or not I have more important things to do than sit here and be berated.”

“Is getting drunk one of those things?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Starscream finished filling his third glass and lifted it. This time, though, he merely sipped, glaring at Wheeljack over the rim. “My processor is still aching from last night and I need to take the edge off”

“By drinking.”

“Yes. A little booze does wonders for hangovers, believe it for now. It's a well known fact. Those little earth creatures you love so much had a phrase for it. ‘Hair of the dog that bit you’.”

“What does that mean?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea but I do like the way it rolls off the glossa. Those Earthlings may be wretched little insects but they do have the odd wordsmith among them. I find they’re particularly creative with their profanity.”

Wheeljack moved toward the table and pulled up a seat for himself. “Did my audials just glitch? That sounded an awful lot like a complement. And here I thought you Decepticons hated Organics on principle.”

Starscream sneered, optics darting to the side as he took another long sip of Engex. “Well, it’s the only thing praiseworthy about those vermin. They are in all other ways abhorrent. And for the last time, I am not a Decepticon. Not anymore.“

“If you say so.”

Starscream finished off his third glass and then emptied the rest of the Engex bottle into glass number four. He saw Wheeljack cringe from the corner of his optic and made an executive decision to ignore it. Let the Autobot judge him. What did he care? 

Without really thinking, Starscream stood and grabbed another glass from the cabinet. He filled it half way with Engex and pushed it across the table to where Wheeljack was seated. The Speedster stared at it as though it were chemical waste. 

“Drink”, he Starscream. “You’ll be glad you did.”

It took almost a full minute of consideration before Wheeljack finally picked up the glass. He lifted it, examining the contents with care. When it was decided that Starscream likely wasn’t trying to poison him, Wheeljack allowed his mask to slide away. Starscream noted, with some interest, that the Speedster did have an appealing faceplate. There was some scarring, but it was mild, completely fixable, and far from a deal breaker. Starscream couldn’t imagine why the Autobot hadn’t simply had his faceplate replaced if he didn’t want to bother with a touch up. 

“Cheers, then,” Starcream said, lifting his glass. 

Wheeljack mirrored him. “Cheers”, he said, and Starscream thought he saw the faintest twitch tug at the corner of the Autobot’s scarred mouth. It was almost as if he’d wanted to smile. 

“What was that saying?”, Wheeljack mused as he brought the glass to his lips, “‘Hair of the dog’? Guess it does have a ring to it.”


End file.
